


The Sadist

by SophinaBlackwood



Series: Rule of Thirds [3]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M, Past Dolphnev, Power Play, Rimming, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 12:57:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11921391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophinaBlackwood/pseuds/SophinaBlackwood
Summary: When Neville learns of who has been hogging his favourite toy, he proposes an offer that neither Mustafa, nor Jack, could possibly refuse... for a price.





	The Sadist

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this is a fun little finale to the short series I've been doing about these three! 
> 
> Content warning for mild non-con. If this triggers you, please do not read!

“WHERE IS HE?”

Neville’s fisted the collar of Tony Nese’s _stupid_ stomach-less jacket and pinned him against the backstage hallway wall.

“Who?!” Tony spluttered, who hadn’t expected to be so abruptly interrupted during his pre-show resistance band reps.

“Neville, let him go,” Drew Gulak sighed, shaking his head with frustration. He spoke as if Neville was some kind of annoying mosquito and not their direct superior. No honour for their King. They would regret that.

“Hold your tongue,” Neville snapped at Drew, then faced Tony again, repeating, “Where is he?”

Tony reeled from the vehement spittle that sprayed from the King’s lips. “I don’t know who you’re--”

“ALI,” Neville roared, and Tony shook visibly under his firm grip. Finally, some respect.

Drew and Tony exchanged a glance. “I saw him and Jack sneaking off downstairs,” Tony answered.

“So, they _are_ together?” Drew seemed almost hurt, or disappointed, by the idea.

Tony rolled his eyes, “I’ve been telling you this for ages.”

Neville grimaced at the idea of _peasant drama_. Yet another thing he would have to deal with once he resolved his current concern. Why couldn’t these damn sheep just stay in their place?

“Where? Which way?” Neville flattened Tony back up against the wall as a warning. Tony frowned and pointed down the north hallway. Uncaringly, Neville tossed him aside, so that Drew had to catch his fall.

“Bastard,” Tony spat under his breath.

Neville paused mid-step. He considered for a half-second to backtrack and deal with the Premier Athlete problem right then and there... _No_. No, that worthless, lucky slug would have to wait for his demise.

Right now, Jack Gallagher was a dead man.

It was not difficult to find the store room in which Mustafa and Jack were having their seven minutes of heaven. A little “peace and quiet” before 205 Live, was that it? Their idea of fun? Neville barged right on in, catching a lewd moment of Jack and Mustafa’s relationship.

Jack, sprawled out over a table, was letting out little moans of pleasure with Mustafa bent lovingly over him, peppering his hip bone with kisses. The Prince’s tongue slowly trailed a way to the base of Jack’s cock, pointed erect to the heavens.

It was Jack who first noticed the intrusion.

“Bloody hell!” he yelled, rolling off the table and frantically pulling up his jocks.

Confused, Mustafa jumped to protect Jack’s dignity and, at seeing Neville, stared agog. _What are you doing here?_ his dark eyes roared, nostrils flared.

Ah, so _that_ was why Mustafa had stopped crawling back to Neville’s hotel room for his routine lashings. Why he’d been avoiding the King altogether. Couldn’t resist a gentleman’s touch, now could he? Did Mustafa prefer Jack’s company? Did Jack know about Mustafa’s dirty little secret? Neville felt a strange feeling in his chest, just off the edge of his ability to understand. It infuriated him.

“What the bloody ‘ell is he doing here?” Jack spat, ginger hair sticking to his slick forehead. He pointed an accusing finger at their pervert.

“Having a little fun before the show, I see,” Neville said, as deadpan as his scowl allowed.

“Oh, piss off,” Jack grumbled, crossing one arm over his chest while the other fiddled with his unkempt hair.

“Well, there you go. You've ruined it, so you can leave now,” Mustafa said, put out.

“Oh, no, no. You think I'm daft, do ya? The minute turn around, you both go back to buggerin’ each other. Not in my kingdom ya don’t.”

“Here we go,” Jack rolled his eyes, nudging Mustafa to signal their leave.

Ignoring Jack, Neville walked up to Mustafa, who tensed. Neville paused, and deliberately glanced to his title. Mustafa’s gaze followed, eyes lingering on the metal with temptation.

“Nice, ah? Why don't you try it on?”

Mustafa flinched as Neville removed the strap from his shoulder and laid it over Mustafa’s. His chest visibly swelled under the weight of the title. Neville could see the narrative his dark eyes told as he focused on the glimmering metal sigil of the Kingdom.

_I want this. I need this. I’ll do anything for this._

Perhaps Mustafa and Neville weren’t so different after all.

“Would you like a Championship match, Mustafa? I have the power to do that, you know. Tonight, if you so wished.”

Mustafa’s eyes slowly moved up to meet Neville’s. Wary, but curious. Perhaps a few months ago Mustafa would’ve outright not trusted the offer. But minds and opinions had changed ever since Mustafa sought out Neville to satisfy his lewd fetish. Again, and again, and again.

Their meetings had become a physical outlet for Neville to hurt and destroy. Well, there was a mutual benefit, now wasn’t there?

“Don’t listen to him Mustafa. Whatever comes out of his mouth is bollocks, I assure you,” Jack intoned, tugging on Mustafa’s arm.

Ah, and the little scamp who wanted to ruin it all.

Neville glanced calmly to Jack, who glowered back- silently irate. Neville had to smirk. The King had the barrel of his conundrum pointed at Mustafa’s head, but it wouldn’t hurt to press the knife to his back either…

“Would you like one, too, Jackyboy? And I’m not talkin’ about no triple threat. Your very own match coupon. When you want. Whenever you want.”

Jack glanced to Mustafa, nerves increasing with a light sheen of sweat on his face. They seemed to be having a silent conversation.

Oh. _Oh._ They were going to take the bait.

_Brilliant._

“What do we have to do?” Mustafa asked.

“Everything I say,” Neville grinned, gently stroking the Championship on Mustafa’s before snatching it violently away. The clasp clipped Mustafa on the back of the neck, and he rubbed it reactively, leering at Neville.

“It’s just a title shot, it’s not worth it,” Jack pleaded, but Neville already knew the gentleman had hit a sore spot before Mustafa turned sharply.

“I don’t just get _handed_ opportunities like you do,” Mustafa raised his voice, pointing to the Cruiserweight title like it was the period to his statement. Actually, his blind aim was a little off and he pointed to Neville’s heart instead. The stupid thing actually skipped at that.

As Mustafa looked ready to burn the whole world down over a strap of metal and leather, Jack leaned slightly back, unnerved. This delighted Neville. It only took a moment for Mustafa to realise his err.

“Oh god,” Mustafa moved into Jack’s space to cupped his cheeks lovingly. He pressed their foreheads together and kissed him lightly. “ _I'm so sorry, I-_ ”

Rolling his eyes, Neville pointedly ignored the painful way in which Mustafa gazed at Jack. Like he was the source of his lifeblood or something daft.

Jack did not take his eye off Neville for even a second. “You really want that title shot?” The question was for Mustafa, and the Prince’s absent response seemed to be enough of an answer. “Alright,” Jack whispered, pressing his lips tenderly to Mustafa’s, then turned fully to Neville. “Do your worst.”

A throaty, threatening chuckle erupted from Neville. He grasped a nearby folding chair and set it up in front of the closed door of the small store room, so the lads couldn’t do a runner if they tried.

Not that they would. Otherwise, wonderfully greedy Mustafa wouldn’t get his title shot.

“Jack, remove Ali’s gear,” Neville ordered, laying the Championship over his own lap.

A blush rose on Jack’s face, and after a begrudging look in Neville’s direction, he knelt down, slipping off Mustafa’s kick pads one by one. Next went his trainers, then Jack’s hands slid up Mustafa’s legs to hook under his waistband, slipping them off. Mustafa leant against a table, hands digging around the edge, staring at Jack with awe. Neville was disappointed to see the leather burn he had applied to Mustafa’s thighs had almost completely faded.

“Hurry up,” Neville spat, running the pads of his fingers over the embossings of his crown.

Jack pursed his lips and carefully pulled Mustafa’s top up and over his head, which made his dark hair flop all over his forehead. When Jack looked to Neville for his next task, Neville nodded towards Mustafa’s hips.

“And his jocks.”

“I will not!” Jack snapped, but Mustafa touched his wrist to draw the gentleman’s attention back to him.

“It’s alright. Do what he says,” Mustafa whispered, blushing profusely. Neville was very glad the two lads were so involved with each other in that moment, as they didn’t see his eyes widen out of his skull.

Was Mustafa.. _enjoying_ this?

Jack reached with trembling fingers to rid Mustafa of his underwear. When it fell away, Neville could not help but stare, mesmerized by the sight of Mustafa’s transcendent form, who was allowing himself to be so wantonly scrutinised. The Prince blushed, with a demure smile and closed his eyes.

 _My god…_ It was like Neville forgot how fucking divine Mustafa was each time they met like this. He would not say he was obsessed, but when Mustafa was so rightly willing to bare himself for Neville, it merely became par for the course. He crossed his legs under the Cruiserweight Championship, grinding thighs together to relieve his arousal. Despite the pleasurable view, Jack strangely chose to keep his gaze pointed at the floor.

“You too, Jackyboy,” Neville smiled evilly, “Not long til’ bell time.”

Jack visibly swallowed, then quickly rid himself of his boots, socks and jocks, presumably to get it over and done with as fast as possible. He hugged his arms over his chest, thoroughly humiliated.

“Look at him, Mustafa,” Neville exclaimed, “Isn’t ‘e beautiful? A perfect little gentleman in every way, even when he’s starkers.” Gladly, Mustafa opened his eyes to drink in as much of Jack as possible, not once glancing back to the direction of the door. Neville grimaced, heartbeat picking up. “Now, touch him. Pull him against you.”

Mustafa didn’t hesitate, slipping his hands over Jack’s shoulders and pulled him into a hug, hands sliding down the alabaster ridges of his back. Jack whispered something that Neville couldn’t hear, then Mustafa leaned in to kiss Jack deeply.

_And that will be enough of that._

“Jack, spin Ali around. Bend him over the table.”

Jack did as he was told, chest heaving with nerves. His fingers gently splayed over Mustafa’s hips, squeezing them twice gently. A sign of care. _It’s okay. We’ll get through this,_ it said. Neville’s grimace deepened.

“On your knees, Jack. I want to see your tongue on his asshole.”

A red tint rose up from Jack’s neck to his forehead as he tensed. The finger Neville used to tap on his crown paused, curious. Why the hesitation? Was Mustafa the dominant in this dynamic? If so, why was Mustafa fucking with him? How could Jack seriously please Mustafa more than Neville could himself?

“Do it, Jack,” Mustafa said. “I want you to.”

Jack gently pulled Mustafa’s cheeks apart and his tongue disappeared between the crevice. Mustafa made a sharp, guttural moan. It was so earth-shattering that Neville’s mind spun hazily, sudden hardon pressing up into the underside of his crown.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Neville groaned, gyrating his hips against the firm leather as Mustafa continued to make the most erotic noises he’d ever heard, mindless to how loud he was being. It seemed to give Jack as much confidence as it was slowly destroying Neville thread by thread.

“Jack!” Mustafa cried out, “ _God,_ love, _that’s--_ ”

A prickling flush spread all over Neville’s skin and he felt himself forced to a stand, heart pounding. Almost as if he were looking down on himself from above, the folding chair collapsed in his grip and he absent-mindedly moved to stand next to the table. Mustafa’s ass pooled around Jack’s fingers, the gentleman’s face buried deep inside. In his hazy, infuriated state, Neville barely registered holding the chair up over his head as Mustafa kept on his incessant moaning.

“Oh, yes. Jack, that’s _incredible_. Jack, _Ja--_ ”

The sound of metal cracking against flesh ripped through the room and the Mustafa’s pleasurable moans instead became cries of agony. It was music to the King’s ear. Neville laughed in relief, a small breathy sound of delight.

“What the bloody hell have you done?!” Jack scrambled to his feet, reeling a fist. His cheeks were raw red, covered with his own lewd slaver.

“Touch me an’ no title shot,” Neville said, sounding bored out of his mind. He carelessly tossed the ruined chair aside. _Know your place, you little toff._

“Stop, Jack,” Mustafa coughed out, “It’s okay.” Writhing to a stand, Mustafa’s knees gave out and he fell to a kneel in front of Neville. His forehead collapsed against the King’s thigh, hot breath sending waves of bliss across Neville’s skin. Just to piss off Jack, Neville ran his fingers through Mustafa’s hair with feigned kindness.

“Such a good lad,” Neville crooned. “That’s my beautiful boy, my perfect wonderful boy. Aren’t you Mustafa.”

Jack blushed in disgust. “Stop,” he said weakly.

Neville smiled darkly, bending to pick up the Cruiserweight title where it had crumpled on the store room floor. With the belt in one hand, and Mustafa’s chin in the other, he raised the Prince to his feet, then cracked the end of the strap sharply across Mustafa’s abdomen.

“Neville!” Jack roared as Mustafa’s limp weight collapsed into Neville’s arms. He tried to grab Mustafa to pull him back but Neville wrestled his grip away.

“How do you feel?” Neville whispered only to Mustafa.

Mustafa just laughed pleasurably against the skin of his neck.

Neville tossed the Cruiserweight title to Jack, who caught it on instinct, eyes wide with fury. Neville took Mustafa’s engorged cock in hand, and began to stroke with such strength it would make a lesser man weep for mercy. Mustafa, though, gave himself over to the pleasure, arching into Neville as he came undone piece by piece with “ _King_ ” on his lips.

Jack blinked at them and sniffed once.

As malleable as clay, Neville used his free hand to firmly press his thumb to the underside of Mustafa’s chin to bring him at eye level. “Would you like Jack to whip you? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, my sweet boy?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Mustafa groaned, beautiful brown eyes glazed over, lost in passion. “Oh, _god_ yes.” His dick pulsed violently in Neville’s hand and for a moment Neville thought he may come just from the sheer thought of the proposition. It stabbed right through Neville’s back.

Eyes never leaving Jack’s ruined expression for a moment, Neville took his hand off Mustafa’s cock to hold the man in his arms. “Kiss me, Mustafa. Kiss your King.”

Mustafa swallowed heavily, his fingers gently skimming over Neville’s hipbone to steady himself. Their eyes briefly met, and for a strange moment, Neville felt as stripped bare as the other two men were. Mustafa pressed in, claiming his lips in a fierce kiss that spoke of so much more than simple lust. And for some reason, Neville’s stupid brain decided to think of _Dolph_ in that moment. Needles of despair sunk into his heart as Mustafa kissed him as if Neville were someone he truly cared about- like Dolph once did. Neville faintly registered that he was kissing back- that his eyes had somehow closed- and the memory of his ex-lover filled his uninhibited mind, back to that night two years ago. It felt more like an age. In a rare circumstance, Dolph and Neville had rode together, and got bogged during a snowstorm (Neville had begged him not to drive in the ill weather but Dolph was stubborn, sometimes wonderfully so). Dolph, unable to unstick the car, was furious, kicking the door frame so hard he hurt himself, and finally collapsed into the driver’s seat, spilling out all his pent up emotions and frustrations until Neville absolutely couldn’t take it anymore, and took the man’s lips in his with a rough, impassioned kiss. Dolph, amazingly, replied with the same lustful vigor.

Struggling to gather his wits, Neville tore Mustafa off his face by the hair and turned him around so he was facing Jack. He wasn’t supposed to be the one who was being confused and overwhelmed. He was supposed to be jaded, and cruel, and evil.

“Hit him,” Neville growled at Jack.

Jack’s eyes widened, looking down to the purple title in his hands and back at Neville. “... what?”

“Belt him, with that title. _Come on_ ,” Neville ordered mercilessly.

“Fuck you,” was all Jack replied.

Neville rustled Mustafa’s unbridled state. “Tell him you want it. Tell ‘im to belt you.”

“ _Yes,_ ” Mustafa moaned. “I need it, Jack, _please_. Belt me, love. Don’t hold back. Please. _Please._ ”

Jack was uneasy on his feet, the Cruiserweight title trembling in his grip. He seemed dizzy, eyes glazing over like he wasn’t quite registering what was being asked of him, or that he was contemplating it at all. Blood rushed to Neville’s dick again, feeding off the pleasure of toying with Jack psyche in this cruel game.

“I can’t,” Jack croaked.

“You can, love,” Mustafa said.

“I love you, I can’t.”

“If you love me, you will.”

A twisted, throaty giggle erupted from Neville’s throat. This was some proper entertainment, alright.

Naked, miserable and embarrassed, Jack slowly raised the Cruiserweight Championship above his head, biceps tensing as if it weighed more like three hundred pounds. Neville’s lips parted into an evil grin. He was going to enjoy every single millisecond of Jack’s vulnerability. The desperation and agony in his hazel eyes made Neville’s insides churn with arousal, so intense that it even startled him that he could be so sadistic.

And suddenly, Jack burst into wild tears.

Neville’s stomach turned, completely blindsided by the gentleman’s abrupt breakdown. The pathetic sobs seemed to shake Mustafa back into reality, who tore out of Neville’s grasp to embrace Jack. The Cruiserweight Championship unceremoniously flopped to the floor.

“Love?!” Mustafa said so adoringly it made Neville physically sick. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t. I know it’s what you want, but I can’t.”

 

_“I know you want this but I can’t do it anymore,” Dolph guiltily pushed his hair out of his eyes, though wouldn’t meet Neville’s alarmed expression._

_The material of Neville’s shiny crimson cape collapsed in his fist. “But I’ve come here to be with you. We may not be on the same show but at least we can be together in the locker room?”_

_“You being on the shitty Cruiserweight show isn’t going to make me fall in love with you again, Adrian.”_

 

Neville saw red. How is it that Jack could remind Neville of the worst day in his life, while wrapped protectively in Mustafa’s arms, no less. _How dare you._

“What right do you have to disobey your King, you disrespectful twat?” Neville roared, pushing Mustafa off to strike Jack clean across the face with an open palm.

Mustafa’s mouth fell open, absolutely scandalised.

Cheeks streaked with tears, Jack made no hesitation as he turned and punched Neville in the mouth. Molten pain exploded in Neville’s mouth, a wild, burning ache in his teeth. He cried out, gasping, and held a hand over his lips.

“That felt bloody good,” Jack said, standing over Neville, chest heaving.

“You’re not our King. You’re not royalty,” Mustafa spat, incensed. “And you can fuck right off with your title shots.” The two quickly collected their gear, and redressed. Neville panicked as the situation quickly spun out of his control.

“He.. you… he… a..” Neville couldn’t even get words out as his cheeks swelled up from Jack’s violent jab.

“We’re done,” Mustafa said, with ominous finality.

Done? What did that mean, done?

And with those terrible words, Mustafa left with Jack’s hand firmly clasped in his. Bruised and broken, Neville scrambled to pick up the limp, forgotten title, and pressed the metal plate firmly against his head- so hard that the WWE logo may be branded into his forehead.

 _I am a King. I am a King,_ Neville wordlessly repeated, over and over until his head ached and the pieces of his heart fused back together with reignited vitriol.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Neville let out an anguished, blood curdled gasp against his crown.

**Author's Note:**

> And all is right in the Kingdom once more . . . ?
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this! Please let me know what you thought of these pairings! I love hearing your thoughts :)


End file.
